The Camping Trip Of Doom
by SaintClaire
Summary: Packing for the camping trip. Why Jas n' Tom want to celebrate their birthdays together in the middle in of nowhere with sheep that can burrow underground is beyond me. As in, FAR beyond me. This cannot end well. - A camping trip between Gee and friends that is bound to go wrong, in a spectacular fashion. And i do mean SPECTACULAR everybody. buckle up.
1. Sven Dances In A Tent

_AN - Hello everybody! I know all my readers are sick of getting updates on stories they've never heard of, but I have good news for the Ingo fans on that front :) This will be a multi chapter fic (my first!) so please bombard me with ideas or comments. I shall update as often as I can, though we all know how good most of us are at keeping that promise. Enjoy, and please leave a review._

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><p>The Camping Trip of Doom<p>

By SaintClaire

**Chapter 1 – Sven dances in a tent**

**The crack of midnight**

I cannot believe I agreed to this.

**30 seconds past the crack of midnight.**

What was I thinking? Oh, that's right, I wasn't. This cannot end well. In fact it will probably end with wet knickers, broken toothbrush mugs, traumatised newts and an early Armageddon.

At the least.

**11:33 next morning**

Packing for the camping trip. Why Jas n' Tom want to celebrate their birthdays together in the middle in of nowhere is beyond me. As in, FAR beyond me.

**2 minutes later**

Do I take my stilettos? Hmmm, they don't really fit in the bag.

Rang Jas.

"Jas, d'you think I should take my stilettos on this camping trip to Armageddon?"

She hung up. Jazzy is in a vair bad mood, and vair grumpy for someone whose birthday is in 3 days.

I will give her an extra-special present to get her out of her bad mood, and also so she will help me put up the tent Rosie and I are sharing.

**40 seconds later**

"Rosie do you have the tent we are supposed to be sharing on our camping trip of doom?"

"Oui, mon pally, except Sven is dancing in it."

Knowing Sven, I should have guessed. "How is he dancing in it? Forgive me for being right, but you can hardly kneel in the tent without the ceiling ruining your hair, and Sven is not one for having his hair ruined by a sadistic tent ceiling."

Roro sighed so dramatically it was a wonder she didn't pass out. "Don't use big words you don't understand Gee. He is dancing in it, he poked both legs through the floor, and pulled it up to his hips. It kind of looks like he's wearing an enormous, oddly shaped nappy actually. But he's dancing around in it quite successfully, seeing as the door is zipped shut and he can't see… Actually scratch that, he's fallen into bush, both his legs are sticking up, toodles!" – and slammed the phone down.

What what what?

I have to sleep in a tent that Sven danced into a bush in?

Oh God, I've just realised. Rosie said there are HOLES in the bottom of the tent. We will be eaten alive by voles and sheep and things that burrow through the ground in the night.

Well that's it, I'm not going.

**Half an hour later**

Hahahaha Angus has pushed Gordy into the toilet. Fatherly love indeed, Gordy is soaking wet.

Libby is trying to dry him with Mutti's hairdryer, but Gordy doesn't seem to like it. Angus finally stepped in to help out, and bit through the cord in one chew, then sauntered off while Gordy made his escape.

WOW, supercat! He is immune to electric shocks! I wonder what would happen if he was hit by lightening. He's mad enough to be wondering around in the middle of a storm.

The phone rang, and since both Mutti and Vati are out making a fool of themselves in the clown car, I graciously answered it.

"What is it, I'm very busy, my cat has just nearly drowned in the toilet."

"Well by all means Gee, get a pair of your fishnet stockings and get him out of there. A toilet is no place for a cat, if he wants a swim you should get him a fish-tank."

Oh for Baby Jesus' sake.

"Dave, neither Angus or Gordy ever get wet if they can help it, they closest they get to swimming is playing 'biff-the-goldfish' in next doors pond. Besides, if we got a fish-tank you can bet Libby would live in it for at least a day, and then it would be broken. We had a bowl fish-tank once, she wore it on her head to pretend she was an old-timey diver and it got there, and Vatti had to hit the back gently with a hammer so it cracked and they could pull it off without cutting her off from all the broken glass." Which, incidently, Vatti sliced his hand on, and had to go the emergency room.

"Fair point well made Gee, but I am not actually calling for an order of a broken fish-tank. I merely ringing out of the goodness of my heart to tell you to bring fireproof clothing. Bonjour, Guten Tag!"

And then the phone went silent.

Fireproof clothing?

What is this?

**2 Minutes Later**

I refuse to go. Who knows what terrors will roam the woods along with murderous voles and tent-dancing Sven's and pyromaniac Dave's. Well actually, there's only one of each of those two.

Thank God.

**5 o'clock**

Mum refuses to ring Jas's mum and tell her I have to stay home from the birthday camping trip. This is, as usual, very selfish of her.

"Mum, I will be all alone in the wilderness surrounded by sheep. And VOLES. Is that what you want for your eldest daughter?"

But, as usual, she merely tutted at me and asked to borrow my blue heels for a date with Vatti, since I wouldn't be needing them.

Oh Lord. I shall have to bury all of my important belongings in the back garden to stop people looting them, like in the days of Ye Olde England.

No, that won't work, Angus and Gordy will only dig them up again, and eat them or rebury them somewhere else in the world. And it could be anywhere else in the world. Even Vatti's shed, which I will never, ever go into.

**2 hours later**

Damnity damnity damn. Mutti has rang Jas's mother and asked if I am supposed to bring anything on the camping trip, and Jas's mother said how much Jas was looking forward to it, and I didn't need anything but a sleeping bag.

I will tell you this for free, and if Jas knew what Dave the Laugh was planning she might not be looking forward to this camping trip quite so much.

**1 minute later**

But he is my boyfriend now, and I luuuuuuurve him.

**30 seconds later**

Do I even have a sleeping bag?

**30 more seconds later**

Oh yes, from that disastrous school trip where we all saw Miss Wilson in the nuddy-pants with her soap on a rope and Nauseating P. Green nearly fell in a peat bog, before the boys all arrived and I fell in a river and broke my bottom.

What a lark that was.

**1 minute later**

What am I going to do about fireproof clothing?

**5 minutes later**

Oh I know, I will make a minidress out of that fire-blanket Mutti bought in her ludicrous attempt to make this house 'safe'.

There are condemned buildings that are safer than this house..

**10 seconds later**

All of this stressful thinking is quite tiring me out.

ZZZZZZZZZ….

**Sunday, 9 AM**

We leave TOMORROW. I have re-resurrected the statue of our Lord Sandra from Libby's doll house. Freak doll house of horrors more like, with poor, deformed dolls with ratty hair strewn all over the place.

But I am Lord Sandra's saviour, he is now sticky taped to my dresser.

Praying to him for mercy and a safe trip, like Ye Olde pilgrims.

**10 seconds later**

I highly doubt pilgrims had to deal with newts and pyromaniac Dave the Laugh's though.

**1 hour later**

Making my fire-proof minidress. Glued on velcro-strips that fasten together at the sides. It is a bit longer than I wanted it needed to be, so I cut of the bottom and made a covering for my hair.

I am really taking inspiration from the Ye Olde pilgrims.

**30 minutes later**

Success! I am finished!

**30 seconds later**

Sacre bleu. Not finished. Dress probably shouldn't be strapless.

**2 minutes later**

Finished! I have made a dress. Perhaps I will become a famous designer, selling my clothes worldwide, even in Hamburger-a-gogo land.

I will not be designing cowboy boots though, and that is a fact.

**5 minutes later**

Hmmmm. Tried dress on. It is possibly a smidgen too short now.

As in, doesn't-quite-cover-my-knickers too short. Oh well. I will wear my leggings underneath, which I will need anyway, to protect me from the hypothermic English air. At least it has straps to hold it up now.

**11 o' clock**

Phone rang. Only Ellen dithering on about what to get Jas for her birthday present. Got her off the phone as quickly as I could, saying that Libby was up a tree wearing a pair of old-timey flying goggles and cape, and had tied herself to a rope.

The sad part? I was not lying.

Does she think she's superman?

Everyone else in this family has gender-confusion issues so I suppose I can't be surprised Libby has caught the disease.

Oh bloody hell, she looks like she's about to jump.

**Half an hour later**

Tee hee hee, Libby has fallen off the tree branch and into the bush. I would be more worried, but the branch was only a meter of the ground, and the bush had all those soft leafy things on it.

That has not stopped her screeching like Gordy when she pulls him by his tail toward the bath. And that is a lot of screeching.

**2 minutes later**

All is well, Mutti has pulled Libby out of the bush, and she is not even scratched. Hmmm. Angus is immune to electric shocks, and Libby is apparently immune to heights. I wonder what would happen if she fell off the roof?

Would she bounce?

Not that I would want this, of course. I do occasionally love me sister, and I know she LOBES me back.

**1 minute later**

After all this kerfuffle, I have forgotten what I am supposed to be doing.

**2 minutes later**

Oh yes, going to buy Jazzy Spazzy's birthday present.

What will I get her?

**2 o' clock**

Rosie and I met at the shops looking for Jas's birthday present. We have found-slash-made a FABULOUS present, that Jazzy will absolutely love and adore for eternity, or that is what I like to think.

Because it is so very expensive Roro and I have split it between us, it shall be a joint present.

But now we have to lug it home.

Good grief. All this work shall ladder my tights. And then where will I be? With laddered tights, that's where.

**What is called 'dinner time' at other people's houses**

Ring the bells and blow the trumpets, there is a food-like thing on our kitchen table!

It is also accompanied by a note telling me to cook it and give some to Libby for tea but oh well. It's only creamed rice. How hard can it be to make creamed rice from a packet?

**7:30**

Oh God. Rice everywhere. Angus is sitting in the saucepan.

**Hour later**

What a fiasco and a half. There is some food in me, some food in Libby, a lot of food in Angus, and rice all over the kitchen.

Who knew you were supposed to put a lid on rice? Or how much water to put in the pot.

**2 seconds later**

At least Libbs and I got the mostly cooked stuff.

**1 minute later**

Hee hee, Angus is covered in creamy rice. Gordy is trying to eat it off him.

**30 seconds later**

There is no rice on Angus any more, he did the famous mad-cat-covered-in-rice shake and is as clean as a whistle.

Gordy isn't.

Neither is the floor, or the walls, come to that.

But ho-hum, I have a camping trip to pack for, and need to try and wrap Jas's present. Though how will be the question. The feathers might go everywhere.

**20 minutes later**

Dave rang.

"Gee, do you have an oversize butterfly net lying around your house by any chance?"

What a good question. We could, but you would never know it.

"No idea, but we have many items covered in creamed rice and a clown car that you are more than welcome to sell on Ebay should it tickle your fancy."

"Ta love, but this is specific, I need it for the camping trip, or my wondrous idea will end in disaster and woe!" And with that, he slammed the phone down.

Love?

Has he snapped?

Has he been eating a diet of Sven-food?

Why in the name of baby Jesus does he need an oversize butterfly net?

Must pray I never find out, and that he does not get one.

**Later (it's dark, pick a time)**

Oh dear. Mutti and Vati have just speeded in at half a mile an hour…

There is still creamed rice all over the house.

Oops.

Oh well. I am trying to concentrate on closing my suitcase, that does not want to be closed.

Ahaha! Finally the suitcase is closed!

Oh dear.

The yelling has started.

**2 hours later**

Mutti went completely ballisticisms when she saw the state of the kitchen. I unfairly dragged down to explain, but I don't even know why she was complaining. Angus and Gordy had eaten most of the creamed rice of everything, even licking out the pot.

What could she possibly have found to be mad out?

Could it have been the 5 pots on the floor, from when I was trying to find the right size?

Perhaps it was the blackened tile, from that small fire when some of the oil accidently spilled over the gas burner.

Oh who knows. Must try to find a ribbon to wrap Jas's present with.


	2. To Catch A Butterfly Net With A Fish

**Chapter 2 – To Catch A Butterfly Net With A Fish**

**9 o' clock in the morning**

Hmmm. I have wrapped Jas's present, but it looks somewhat like a very fat and lumpy person-sized lump has been covered in Christmas paper. Though I suppose she will know it is not that, because if it was I would not even be able to lift it off the ground, let alone carry it through the haunted woods of wherever we're going.

**2 mins later**

Rang Rosie.

"Roro, the present is wrapped and tied, but still looks like a fat lumpy person in a body bag made of Christmas paper."

"Mon Dieu and Sacre Bleu Gee, but we shall have to press on. I really can't talk at the moment, I'm helping Sven pack his spiked flares in his suitcase so he will blend in with the hedgehogs he is eager to meet on the camping trip. Bye bye!"

Sacre Bleu indeed, if Sven is taking his spiked trouser flares. At least one thing is for sure, with those on, Rosie won't be able to get close enough to him to achieve a number 10 and that is _le fact._

I have my doubts she will be able to hold his hand, you certainly wouldn't want to be anywhere near spiking distance.

It would probably be safer to be up a tree with Dave.

Hmm, now I think about that…

He might try to chop it down or something. Tom's bringing his axe, so we can build fires out of firewood. Apparently none of the adults considered the scenario of Dave or one of the other merry lads chopping a tree down to prove their man strength.

Hmm. This could be a disaster, a badger might get squished. Oh no, my mistake, that would be a good thing. We wouldn't be at risk of the deadly smell they can spray out their bottoms. Or is that skunks? I forget.

**45 mins later**

It would be a worthwhile idea to bring a suit of armour with me, but that is very unsexy and also we do not have one. Also, not one of my lipsticks would match with it.

**5 mins later**

Borrowed Mutti's waxing kit from the bathroom to wax my legs with before I leave, as dear old Jazzy Spazzy said I was not allowed to bring my razor with me, or hair bleach, or any other bleach for that matter.

She has very little trust in me.

Instructions were clearly made for the very dim, warm wax strips between hands, pull strips apart, smooth nice and smoothy onto legs and wait 20 seconds before ripping off.

Really, how painful can this be? Why do people make such a fuss over this?

**30 seconds later**

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod I am in so much pain, my legs are bright red and it looks like I've got chickenpox, huge WELTS are appearing all over me from where the wax strip was ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow.

**1 agonising hour later**

Never again will I try waxing. I shall inform Vati he needs to begin saving for laser hair removal treatments.

There is wax all over the bathroom.

It is eerily similar to the creamed rice episode, in fact.

But there are no saucepans. And that's a good thing.

**30 seconds later**

I would have hit myself over the head with one by now.

**20 mins later**

Well the bathroom is _mostly _clean, except for these stupid little patches of wax that refuse to come off the mirror, or the sink, or the tiles, or wherever the hell I accidently put one of the sodding strips down.

Threw the wax strips away, and just re-stole Mutti's hair-removal cream.

Don't know why I didn't just do that in the first place.

**1 minute later**

Oh I remember, it's because I'm being sent to the haunted woods in exile with a bunch of jolly lads and Dave.

**10 seconds later**

Hmmm. Dave does not fit in the category of a jolly lad.

What is Dave's category?

'The Laugh' just doesn't cut it.

**10 more seconds later**

'The bloody insane and infested with pyromaniaism' might.

…

**2 hours later**

Dave and Sven on the phone.

I didn't catch much beyond Sven singing something that sounded like row, row row your boat in Sweden-language, and Dave yelling "All is well my gorgeous Gee, we have found the fish to catch the butterfly net with that we shall eat for tea, got to go!" before the phone was slammed down.

He caught a butterfly net with a fish? What in Baby Jesus' name are they doing together with a butterfly net that I really hoped they would not find and a fish?

Sincerely hope my boyfriend does not turn into a flamboyant gay and get together with Sven, forever going through life sorting out which customized flares he shall wear tomorrow.

Doubt it.

Also, Rosie would never allow it. She would stop getting monthly presents of pickled herrings whenever the painters come to visit.

I am never going to Sweden-land. Ever.

**Half an hour later**

Saying goodbye to the furry savages before Jazzy's Mutti gets here to drive us off to the camping site.

We would in fact probably be safer if Angus and Gordy came with us, as they would eat every vole in sight and then leave the extra for us to cook for tea, as they are so fond of doing for Mutti, who screams and ungraciously throws their generous gifts from the house.

Though I am not eating vole, or any other thing scampering around those woods, and that is a fact.

We could always eat Jas, I suppose. It is her birthday trip, but the rest of us will survive, and Jazzy will just have to accept she cannot be selfish.

As a matter of fact, what are we eating on this camping trip?

I think I will hastily pray to Baby Jesus and Buddha and Thor and the Swedish Gods that it is not anything the boys intend to catch and roast over the fire or anything. God knows what they taught Tom and Jas on that wilderness course.

Great, now the disturbing image of Jas in a frilly apron dancing round a bonfire roasting voles on a spit has popped into my head.

Erlack a pongoes. Tom is carving in a lookalike-transvestite apron.

**10 seconds later**

Must make sure I have packed the fireproof dress and ye olde hair covering.

**4 o' clock**

Lord Sandra help me, Jas's mum has arrived with Jas.

**Hour later**

It took us awhile to fit my bags and Jazzy's present in the bag of the car. This was of course because of all the pointless camping stuff already crammed into the boot. Stuff like Swiss army knives, coils of rope and headtorches.

I knew it, she intends to drag us from civilization entirely. In what scenario on this trip will we need coiled rope? Is she planning a day trip to go abseiling?

- Absolutely must not mention this horrific thought in case it isn't so. They don't need more ludicrous ideas, that's for sure.

**10 seconds later**

Jas is bouncing up and down in the car like an aardvark on espresso tablets. Not that I have ever seen, or want to see this.

Do we even have aardvarks in Merry England? Hope not.

I will point out that Jas's parents car is entirely normal, painted a sensible dark blue with working seatbelts and the correct number of wheels. Jas's Mutti is not wearing flying goggles and a helmet, and her Vati apparently wished Jas a lark of a time and stayed home to read the newspaper.

This is a clear case of absolutely top parenting. Aside from, you know, the letting-us-all-go-off-into-the-wilderness-to-die bit. But apart from that, Jazzy's parents could win the award for the year.

Honestly, am I the only one that sees a slight problem out of Me, Jas, Rosie, Ellen, Mabs, Jools, Tom, Sven, Dave, and Rollo in the middle of nowhere, fending for ourselves for a week in an area that does not get mobile reception? Apparently so.

Perhaps this is because we never told our parents what happened on our last camping trip. Nauseating P. Green nearly died in peatbog and Miss Wilson's nudity was exposed to all, finished off by the boys making a surprise entrance at our tents for us to all go skipping through the woods together.

**15 minutes later (sound dramatic music)**

Lord Sandra help me. We're here.

**8 o' clock**

Praise God and all his holy angels. Two Minute Noodles for tea, that Tom is cooking on the camp stove that he actually knows how to use and has not burned his fingers from. Yum yum yum.

**Later**

Became exceedingly cross with Dave when he volunteered us to do dishes for this first night. Dishes? I have never washed a dish voluntarily and that is a fact.

Still, to seem like a good sport I heaved the sack of noodle-contaminated dishes onto my shoulder and started off to the river in my huffmobile. Made Dave carry the heavy-looking box that probably had, I don't know, soap and stuff in it.

I am not going to speak to Dave. Boyfriend or _non, _he shall be punished for this.

**Even later**

Dave's punishment has been temporarily rescinded due to the heavy-duty snogging session that occurred while we were supposed to be washing dishes.

What happened is; Dave grabbed the bag off me, dumped it in the shallow-y part of the river and pulled me behind a tree to snog me. Mmmmm, nicey nice. Thankfully, no symptoms of snogging withdrawal. Number 6 and nip libbling included. Dave does not seem to be on the ship of ear-snogging. I think I shall have to subtly push him onto it. Or do I mean off it? No, this is not the Titanic where people went around pushing other people overboard.

What am I talking about? Brain has not yet made a re-appearance since we snogged. Hope it comes back soon.

However, we then both had to run for it when we saw the bag of dishes floating down the stream. Dave made a heroic flying leap to grab the bag, but fell over a rock and landed face-first in the water. How I laughed. Except then he grabbed me round the waist and shoved me in with me, and I got all wet as well.

We did eventually grab the bag, and trodded back to the campsite sopping wet. Everyone stared us like we'd grown tails or something, but Sven just skipped off and came back with his hairdryer, which he handed to Dave.

Err, this would be great, but where exactly were we supposed to plug the cord-attached hairdryer into, I wonder. The tree, maybe?

So we changed into our jimjams and sat around eating chocolate and playing true confessions until it got dark, and everyone went to go make out.

Jazzy's actual birthday is not until the day after tomorrow, so she cannot have her present until then. I sincerely hope time will hurry up, the present looks creepily like a corpse in a body bag beside Roro's sleeping bag in our tent.

That reminds me – must check Sven's foot holes in the tent floor have been sealed over.

**Before Midnight**

Lying in my sleeping bag with sodding no-one. Rosie buggered off for a midnight snogging session with Sven, so Dave, who has been made to share with Sven, will probably be scared for life. Oh well. Serve's him right for dragging us to do dishes.

How clean they are is in question, but oh well, you can't have everything. If you look at them with squinty eyes in an abstract manner they look quite clean. Sort of.

**A bit more before Midnight**

Ahhh, Roro is back. With considerably more chapped lips then when she left. And I don't mean she grew more lips, you drongoes, honestly, how dim are you?

She was giggling and twittering on about Sven, and snogging, and sandwiches, and other horrific things that start with the letter S . This camping trip is starting off as quite a larf actually. Perhaps it will not end up with broken toothbrush mugs and nudists with soap-on-a-rope. Nothing has gone wrong yet, except for that time I fell in the stream. That was, you know, 'bout two hours ago.

Oh bollocking hell, I had to open my mouth. It's starting to rain.

…

Still raining.

…

Rain is now thundering down hard enough to make dents in the tent. We will probably be washed away down the river, and end up in on a deserted island like Robinson Crusoe.

Do tents float? Pray we do not find out.

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><p><em><strong>AN - Hey guys! Whatever you think so far, I have barely scratched the surface of this camping trip. Gee has no idea what she's in for. Neither do you, come to think of it. I am open to all ideas and criticisms, so please, please, leave a review.<strong>_

_**SaintClaire **_


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